The new drive is a bit of a pain to install, in a way that she's certain that the last few weren't. The screws keep on finding their way away from her fingers, and the little screwdriver's teeth won't catch their heads the way it should—so much harder than the last time, years ago, when everything practically danced into position. When the world was simpler and the future hadn't yet tarnished.
Age comes for us all, she supposes, no matter that her body has long since been liberated from the sins of flesh; delicate circuitry degrades and hermetically sealed joints conspire to clog with dust. Perhaps some replacements and a tune-up is all she needs, but it hardly seems worth the bother of the time she'd have to spend reacquainting herself with her body. Leave all that to the immortals who endlessly crave their long-ago youth: she is content to be old.